Blowing Against the Wind
by focsfyr
Summary: Vash has lost all hope and now it would take a miracle to set things right... SPOILERS for eps. 23


Author: focsfyr & Whisper (co-writers)  
  
Pairing: V+W/W+V  
  
Warnings: angst, yaoi and second chances  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own them and don't claim to. I'm just borrowing them to torment them.  
  
Archive: if you want it, ask  
  
Some SPOILERS for eps. 23  
  
Thanks to Asidian and missa for beta-ing ^_^v any mistakes remaining in either timeline or grammar are totally our fault.  
  
Blowing Against the Wind  
  
A lonely figure slumped on the road, surrounded by bullet casings scattered like bits of broken sunshine beneath a sunless sky. The dust of the road leeched all color away, red and black dulled to a dingy gray. . .Except for sea green eyes, windows to a broken soul hidden behind tears and hair long and ragged with neglect.  
  
Trembling fingers lifted a crumpled cigarette to his lips and fumbled to light a match.  
  
"Do you need help?"  
  
The unlit cigarette fell to the ground and he scrubbed the tears from his face, leaving smudges of dirt across fair skin. "No."  
  
Without a glance at the owner of that unwelcome voice he pushed to his feet, stumbling for a moment before finding his balance.  
  
Head bowed down and shoulders slumped in defeat, he began to walk down the road, drawn like a magnet to the spark of light glistening among the stones until it lay directly at his feet. He didn't pick it up, just watched it shine in the midday twilight as if to spite the cloudy sky.  
  
A gun. Silver and heavy and stained with guilt. It was his burden to bear.  
  
He drew out another cigarette and pressed it between his lips. The match still wouldn't light.  
  
His head jerked up at the sudden sound of a match being struck to see an old man--well, old-looking at least; Vash was hardly in a position to call anyone *old*--dressed in a coat and hat like an old-fashioned 'gentleman' offering him a light.  
  
"Here," said the voice from before. When had the man moved? Vash hadn't heard him approach, but somehow that failed to evoke the same thread of fear it once would have. Maybe because he just didn't care.  
  
He warily touched the tip of the cigarette to the proffered flame. "Thanks." He sucked in a deep breath and let smoke fill his lungs. It didn't make him cough like it used to. "Where did you come from?"  
  
"Down the road a ways. There's this little town a few miles back. A quiet place with quiet people, but no one would bother you there, just leave you alone to mind your own business. It's a good place to live, if you don't mind the solitude."  
  
His eyes were too kind for a world so harsh; they reminded Vash of his. . .once. . .when he could still pretend that fate possessed mercy and that people weren't by nature cruel. "That's what most people can't stand, the solitude."  
  
::Neither can I. Not anymore. But it's all I've had since. . .:: Wolfwood died. That had been the blow that killed him inside. Too many burdens, too many lies, too many people dead because of him. It had all reached a breaking point and come crashing down, too heavy a load to bear, and though he smiled in the face of hatred, the feeling behind it began to slip.  
  
Then he met two girls, employees of an insurance agency and determined to follow him everywhere. And they forced him to live again.  
  
Then he met a priest, and re-learned how to love.  
  
An annoying, chain-smoking drunk of a priest, with beautiful eyes that stripped away the masks and stared straight to your soul while still hiding the person behind them. A liar, like him, but good at heart.  
  
Gone. Dead, because he tried to live up to Vash's ideals. He spared a life, and lost his own. Vash killed him with his way of thinking, and Nick died never knowing how much he was loved because the infamous criminal, Vash the Stampede, was too much a coward to tell him.  
  
His eyes drifted sadly back to the gun, wondering idly whether he should just leave it. What good was something that caused only pain? He may not use it to kill directly, but people still died, and the guilt still rested on him. He leaned down and picked it up, brushing away the dirt and grime.  
  
"So, what does a guy like you do when you're not sitting in roads?"  
  
"I'm just a traveler. You?"  
  
"Me? Why, I sell life insurance. Name's Derek, but people just call me Drifter." Vash took another pull from the cigarette. "That's a terrible habit, you know. Ruins the lungs."  
  
"Aa." But somehow *his* voice had stayed clear and vibrant, with none of the grating quality of so many smokers. "I picked it up from a friend."  
  
Drifter gave him a shrewd look. "A lover?"  
  
"A friend," his voice dropped to a barely audible whisper as he fought back a new wave of tears. "It never got past that."  
  
Wisely, the old man stayed silent. He watched as the world-weary blond stared off into the distance, eyes fixed on what looked like a weather-worn stick planted in the ground, tatters of cloth hanging limply from the end.  
  
As he watched, sorrow began to replace the emptiness in the despondent blond's eyes. Though relieved to see some emotion instead of the dead look they possessed before, that haunting, soul-deep sadness wasn't much of an improvement.  
  
"Why are you so sad?"  
  
Drifter didn't really expect an answer to his soft-spoken question, but he must have done something right, because he got one anyway. "I've been down this road before."  
  
Vash had been here nearly two years ago. Hunting a merciless sniper with an insanely long rifle whose sights were set on him.  
  
And even as the man put a gun to his own head, Vash knew that something was off. He felt the faintest tingling of "something's wrong," a nagging feeling that he should be somewhere else. But he foolishly had blamed it on his reaction to the Gung-ho-gun's suicide and didn't think of it again.  
  
So he took the time to weep for Caine's death and dig the sniper a proper grave, deep enough the scavengers wouldn't dig him up to gnaw his bones, while his best friend--the man he loved--faced off against his own teacher and took the bullet that would end his life.  
  
He'd only known what had happened once he arrived back in town and saw the spatters of blood soaking into the desert dust, marking Wolfwood's trail with morbid prints. He was too late.  
  
Legato got his wish; he made Vash hurt more than he ever had before. He thought losing Rem had been the worst that could happen, but losing Nick had cut so much deeper. Rem's death had left him with the sanctuary of her beliefs, her teachings, the memory of being loved. With Wolfwood, he had no such knowledge, only that he had been a friend. Nothing more. Just pain.  
  
Especially knowing that if he'd been there a few minutes sooner, not taken his time driving back into town, paying his respects, burying his foe, if he had hurried just a little bit faster, Nicholas D. Wolfwood would still be alive. *That* was what broke him.  
  
It was his fault.  
  
A tear tumbled down his cheek. The old man nodded sadly, "Sometimes we all wish we could turn back the clock. We think that if we'd just done something different, everything would have turned out right."  
  
Vash barely caught himself from nodding his agreement. "I didn't say that out loud. . . ?"  
  
"No, your eyes spoke for you. Reading people is part of my job."  
  
"I thought you sold insurance."  
  
"Life insurance. Want some?"  
  
His lips twisted bitterly at the irony. "No."  
  
"Too bad, I'm gonna give it to you anyway. . .in the form of advice." He turned and pointed off down the road, where the horizon and desert blurred into one another. "You see down that road? That blur way back there? That's your second chance. That is your destiny."  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
"Trust me, it's there. You just have to squint a little to see it."  
  
Vash snorted and closed his eyes to hide the pain in them. Right, that's a laugh. He knew his destiny. Another friend, another death, another spill of blood on his hands.  
  
And loneliness, don't forget the aching loneliness. That was his destiny.  
  
He looked up to say as much, but the stranger was gone. It seemed like only a moment, but he guessed it must have been longer. No one could just disappear.  
  
Down the road, the faint blurring of motion resolved itself into a plume of dust, trailing behind a speeding car. He shoved his gun back into the holster and wearily got ready to wave down the driver and beg a ride.  
  
Then a gunshot that shattered the silence. He whirled to face the shooter and found a masked man with a gun to his own head. This scene--so familiar. . .  
  
Caine.  
  
"No," he whispered helplessly. It was no different from last time. The sniper pulled the trigger.  
  
Just like last time. . .god, Nick!  
  
::Hurry, you can save him.:: The sudden thought shook him from his shocked daze and he sprinted to the car, leaving Caine where he fell.  
  
He wouldn't concern himself with the dead when there was a chance for the living. He slammed it into gear and floored the accelerator.  
  
::Hurry, he's still alive! Faster! You can save him this time! GO FASTER!!::  
  
The tires skidded as he slammed on the brakes, boots striking ground before it had even really stopped. Now if he could only find him in this hopeless maze. . .he slid around the corner of a half-demolished building. His throat was dry, lungs burning.  
  
There! There he was! Back turned away from his killer. . .no, not killer yet! He'd only just lifted the gun. There was time--just not much.  
  
"NICK! LOOK OUT!!!" Three things happened in a fraction of a second as the scream tore from Vash's throat: Wolfwood looked up, the final shot was fired and two close friends crashed to the ground, blond head buried against a black clad chest and limbs so tangled you couldn't tell one from the other.  
  
Vash never even noticed as the assassin ran off. His eyes were too clouded with tears of relief.  
  
A lean figure lounged at the side of the road, black duffel bag serving as a rest for his back. The dust from his travels colored bright crimson dull red, leaving the black steel gray and blond hair even lighter. His depthless eyes were open, staring in delight at the bright sky, watching small birds drift on the breeze.  
  
"Vash. Oi, Vash!"  
  
His eyes snapped earthward to penetrating cobalt eyes. "Hm? Oh, sorry, Nick. Guess I zoned out for a second." He shook off the uneasy feeling of déjà vu and reoriented upon the present. What *had* he been thinking so intently about? He couldn't remember.  
  
"Come *on*, Vash, rest time's over. We've gotta get going if we want to make it to town by nightfall." Hauling himself to his feet and slinging his bag over his shoulder, Vash trotted to catch up to his lover.  
  
He couldn't shake the feeling that he was forgetting something important. Something about what had been occupying his mind only moments before.  
  
But who cared? He lived for the present, instead of lingering on what he could no longer change. And the man before him was all he needed.  
  
OWARI 


End file.
